Daja's Book Read online

  You have to weave it, Sandry announced, like you did that day when Poly am gave you her plate. We’ll give you the power, but you have to work it.

  Yarrun called it the Great Square of Zuhayar the Magnificent, said Tris. It put your forge-fire out. If you make it big enough, maybe you can put this out.

  I can’t make a square big enough to put out a forest fire! cried Daja.

  Start weaving! urged Sandry. Worry about putting the fire out after it’s under control!

  Daja moaned, chewing on her lip. The wall of flames was advancing, with the caravan in its path. The only thing that blocked it was her.

  Looking the ground over, she saw a gap in the fire where a mass of rock jutted through the soil. The road itself was another break in the wall. Perhaps what she needed was more than one fire-weaving.

  Reaching out with one hand, she split her fingers apart. The leftmost chunk of fire was her thumb, the mass directly ahead her index and middle finger, the blaze on the right her remaining fingers. She let her magic billow forward on those three paths. It swelled and bloomed, carrying power from Sandry Tris, and Frostpine as well as Daja’s own. Holding that magic with her mind, she pinched the blaze into three gigantic stems. In a way it was like handling forge-fire, except that the least quiver in her attention would free these flames to do much more damage than she could in a smithy. Pinching this fire in made it stronger, like channeling a broad river into a small, deep channel. She drew her three blazes up and sent them shooting toward the sky in pillars.

  Locking her mind on the leftmost pillar, Daja ordered it to break into multiple strands on one end, like her earlier fire-weaving. This blaze fought her. It wanted to break free of her magic and go back to eating everything in sight.

  “No,” she growled. She had worked her will on iron and gold. This fire would do as it was bid!

  The column writhed. It wanted to chew the fuel-covered ground. It did not want to submit. Daja struck hard with her magic, slamming her power down. The column wavered and split at the end like a frayed rope.

  Here was Sandry, waiting in the core of Daja’s magic. I can do this, she assured Daja. Let me through.

  With a sigh, Daja turned her loose. Sandry raced in to gather the ends of the frayed column of fire. As swiftly as if she’d handled fire-thread all her life, she began to weave. Daja watched briefly, worried because she could see that Sandry’s grip on the many strands wasn’t as firm as she would like. No matter how often the fiery threads escaped her, though, Sandry grabbed them back time after time.

  Reassured, Daja looked at the fire-pillar directly before her. Now she understood better how to shape it. Using power like a hammer, she struck. The column wavered, then firmed. Daja pounded it again and again. At last the end frayed into strands. Tris took this weaving over. She wasn’t as quick as Sandry, but the strands didn’t escape her as they did the noble. Tris would be all right.

  Daja watched her friends, clutching the last column of flame. Thank Trader and Bookkeeper that our powers mixed, she thought, startled. I never could have worked this blaze all by myself.

  She fixed her mind on the column of fire she still held. This time she was confident: a single blow of her magic split it into a dozen strands.

  Allow me, said Frostpine. His magic roaring through her made Daja’s teeth chatter. She let him by, watching as he worked the flames not as thread but as wire. One after another he laid the strands across each other and hammered the places they crossed, melting them into a solid join.

  Daja’s vision grayed; her knees felt weak. All this power running through her body was dragging at her strength. She bit her lip and forced her mind back to the job at hand.

  Sandry finished her work, a long scarf of flame that towered in the air. Remember when you hy your grid on your forge-fire? she asked Daja now.

  It went out, Daja replied, hope leaping fire-bright in her own heart.

  So put out a fire with this! urged Sandry.

  Certainly there were large blazes behind the three flame creations. Daja carefully drew Sandry back through her core, pulling her friend out of the fire-scarf Once none of Sandry was left in the weaving, Daja gripped it afresh and pinched off its stem. When it was free of its trunk, she let the weaving fall to the ground.

  Everything under the scarf went black, smothered. The flames close to its edges, however, blew out and away, setting a new part of the forest ablaze.

  “Oh no,” whispered Daja, horrified, guessing what had gone wrong. When she’d dropped her grid on the forge-fire, the edges of the stone fireplace had kept the blaze from escaping. There was nothing out here to hold the fire at the edges of the weaving in.

  We’d better not try that experiment again, Sandry remarked grimly.

  No indeed, Daja replied.

  They watched as the last fiery threads in Frostpine’s and Tris’s columns joined the rest to form tidily arranged scarves. Done, Tris said with relief. She trickled wearily back into Daja.

  Frostpine stopped to admire his work. Not bad for an old man like me, he remarked. This kind of thing has real possibilities. I’m glad I tried it.

  I’m pleased that you’re pleased, Daja replied sarcastically. If I knew you wanted to play with fire, I’d’ve helped you with it ages ago.

  She felt him laugh as he retreated back through her, allowing her to grip the fire-scarves alone. They blazed white with power, barring the advance of the more ordinary fires behind them. Daja scratched her head, trying to think. Now what? Ought she to try to capture the fire that had started when she and Sandry had dropped that weaving? It was taking a path away from her and the caravan. To get it, she’d have to chase it. Was she up to that?

  A hand fell heavily on her shoulder and was quickly snatched away. “Trader, you’re hot!” cried Polyam. She was coated in soot; the yellow qunsuanen paint was smeared. “Are you all right?”

  Daja looked at her, thinking she wouldn’t have suspected that anything could make Polyam look less attractive than she was already. Here was proof that something could.

  Behind the woman she could see that the wagons were not moving. “What’s wrong?” she demanded. “I can’t hold this stuff forever, you know! Get them—”

  The look on Polyam’s scarred face told her their bad situation had gotten worse. “I think the fire was already headed north when you got out of the cart,” the wirok informed her tiredly. “It jumped the road. We’re cut off at the rear.”

  12

  Rosethorn paced like a caged tigress, her eyes locked on the distant flames. “I can’t stand this,” she muttered. “I have to do something.”

  Briar was at his wits’ end looking after her. Scared, he glanced across the platform: Sandry Tris, and Frostpine stood hand in hand where they could see through drifting clouds of smoke to the shadowed groove that was the road. In Briar’s vision they all glowed bright with magic.

  They wouldn’t be able to help. What could he do with Rosethorn? She was thinking of something foolish; he was sure of that. Just two months ago, she had thrown all of her power into a wall of thorny plants at Winding Circle, even though pirates were dumping the burning jelly called battlefire onto them. Briar remembered Rosethorn’s screams: she had felt the plants’ deaths far more than did he. She meant to pitch herself into this war for green lives, he knew it.

  “If you do something, let’s do it together,” he urged. He clung to her sleeve as she made her hundredth trip around the platform. “Use me for a shield, please, Rosethorn!”

  That made her stop. “No,” she said flatly. “I’m going to save some of the trees, and I forbid you to help.”

  “No!” he yelled, grabbing fistfuls of her habit. “I won’t let you!”

  It felt as if he’d hugged a sapling that suddenly turned into a tree wider than the tower on which they stood. Briar was thrown back into the kiosk that sheltered the stair. The breath slammed from his lungs; he slid to the floor. The giant tree that was also Rosethorn shone so brightly he could not bear t
o look at her.

  “My lad, do as you’re told,” she murmured. Then that overwhelming power—Rosethorn’s, hidden until now—drew back, to his intense relief.

  Someone was climbing the steps and stepping onto the platform. Cool, human hands lifted Briar to his feet and pressed a bottle to his lips. He drank. Blessedly sweet water, flavored with mint, ran down his throat, making him feel like Briar again.

  “Didya see that elephant?” he asked, pushing the bottle away when he’d had enough. “I wanna complain to a magistrate. Someone let an elephant run wild, and it stepped on me.”

  “That was just Rosethorn being noble,” said Lark grimly. “I’ll make her use my strength—I’m not bound to green magic, so I won’t get hurt. You help the girls and Frostpine. From the way he’s cursing, they just ran into more trouble.”

  “I’ll help them, too,” said Niko, who had come back with her. “The fire has circled Daja and the caravan.”

  Briar stumbled over to Sandry and Tris, his throat tight with fear. He could see now that the line of smoke and flame had surged from the east to wrap itself around a length of the road like a giant letter C. At the top of the curve rose towering rectangles of woven fire. At the bottom of the C shadowed patches dotted the flames, each showing the silver wash of magic. Reaching with his own power, he found Rosethorn in every patch, holding off the fire with sheer strength.

  Turning, he saw her nearby, half-bent over the stone rail. He moaned deep in his throat when he saw she had bitten through her bottom lip.

  Lark stepped in beside Rosethorn and slung an arm around the shorter woman. “Here, love,” she said kindly, “let me help you with that.”

  This time at least Briar knew to shade his eyes against the blaze as Lark’s magic flooded into her friend’s. Jealousy rose in his throat, thick as bile. Rosethorn would take help from Lark.

  What do you care, as long as she gets help and plenty of it? his better self wanted to know.

  It still hurt.

  He turned away at last, trying to blink the spots from his vision. “Well,” he remarked with a sigh, “may as well make myself useful.” Closing his eyes, he found the blaze that was the combined magics of Tris, Frostpine, Sandry and Niko and plunged in. They formed a pool into which he spread himself: at its bottom, a long, silver tie flowed toward Daja like an open drain.

  At first Daja thought she was trapped, unable to leave the two remaining fire-scarves. They were the only barrier against the flames in front of the caravan. If she tried to move them or take them with her, the Traders would be in danger within minutes.

  I’ll take them, offered Sandry. If we rope them together, I’m nearly positive I can hold them alone.

  I’ll stay too, said Frostpine. Together we can hold them. But the rest of you had better think of a way to get rid of these things before we’re exhausted.

  Be careful, Daja told Frostpine and Sandry. Don’t let them break away from you, or we’ll all cook. Reaching inside, she found her ties to the scarves and passed them to her teacher and her friend. Only when she was sure that they were in control of the fiery weavings did she head for the back of the train at a run, with Polyam following.

  The Traders had formed a tight cluster at the middle of their line of wagons. The children were crying, but quietly, as Trader children were taught: they huddled under the vehicles, out of their elders’ way. Except for the teams drawing the wagons, the animals were bunched at the rear, guarded by men and teenagers who kept them from escaping into the forest. Daja could smell cooking goat and chicken. Some of the animals must have run into the fire in panic. On both sides of the sunken road where she had been just half an hour ago, the forest was ablaze.

  Daja’s heart thumped at the sight of those walls of flame. She leaned against the last cart—the one that held her iron vine—shuddering. I can’t, she thought. I can’t! This will kill me, and for who? Them?

  She looked at the caravan, her eyes watering. I’m trangshi. They keep telling me so. They’d be happier if I was dead. If they survive this, the first thing they’ll do is put the whole caravan through qunsuanen.

  Polyam had caught up to her. She slumped against the wood beside Daja, panting. “I wouldn’t blame you if you left us to burn,” she croaked, her voice thick with smoke. “We only did what our people have always done, but Tsaw’ha custom is cruel when you’re on the wrong end of it.”

  Daja wiped her forehead on her sleeve. Inside, where her power was, Frostpine, Niko, and her friends were silent. They weren’t the ones who would be the path for all the magic that was needed here. It was her body at risk, not theirs. If she backed off now, they would never hold it against her. Any one of them, in her place, might die of this working, and they all knew it. It was Daja’s choice.

  She looked again at the caravan. This time she saw the faces of her own family, drowned long months ago. Chandrisa could have been her mother, the ride leader her father. For each adult and child she could name one of the dead: her brother Uneny always trying to get out of work; mean Aunt Hulweme; Cousin Ziba, who loved to sing. Her little sister, only nine, in her first month aboard ship; her grandmother, seventy-three and toothless, still cooking for their crew.

  All that thinking she did in a breath’s time. All that memory: it raced through her like a speeding bird.

  “Water,” she croaked.

  Polyam gave her a skin bottle. Daja gulped a few mouthfuls down, then poured the rest over her face and head. She’d never had a chance to save Third Ship Kisubo. Maybe she couldn’t save Tenth Caravan Idaram—but at least she could try.

  She had left her staff in the cart when she’d gone to the head of the caravan. Now she picked it up, running a hand over its smooth brass cap. Leaning on it, she walked into the center of the road and faced the blaze. Its advance on her—on the caravan—had slowed. Some huge trees in its path were refusing to burn, as did the bushes and saplings around them. Magic filled the plants, turning the flames back from bark and leaves.

  Rosethorn, she realized. Rosethorn was saving the plants and giving her a chance to think.

  The weavings seem to work the best, Niko told her in mind-talk. This is no time to experiment.

  Despite her fear, Daja had to grin. “When you’re right, you’re right,” she muttered.

  No one in the road asked who she was talking to. She looked around: all of them, even Polyam, had retreated. They had left her to face the blaze alone.

  What did you expect? she asked herself ironically. Gratitude?

  Closing her eyes, she fell into her power’s core, plummeting like a dropped hammer. She reached out to gather all she had, pulling it close, shaping it as the right tools for her needs. The others’ magic combined with hers as copper and zinc melted to create brass. She swirled Tris and Niko and Briar together, shaping them. To stop this fire, Daja would have to pull it into one great column—there was no time to break it into smaller ones.

  I told Rosethorn to ditch the little plants, Briar said matter-of-factly. She won’t give up the trees, though.

  Daja opened her eyes. Here came the fire, roaring between the giant trees like some monster, like an earthquake heard deep underground.

  Help me, she thought, not sure if she spoke inside her magic or not.

  We are here, replied Niko, Briar, and Tris.

  Turning left, Daja reached out one-handed and shoved the onrushing fire toward the strip of road before her. Turning right, she stretched out magic and hand and pushed that side of the wall of flame in. Left again, and push. Right again, and push. Narrower and narrower grew the blaze, leaning toward the middle, thrust by four mages’ combined power. At last she could move it no further.

  Taking a deep breath, inhaling as much smoke as air and pulling strength from it, Daja flung her arms apart as far as they could go, then swung them back together. The closer her palms got, the more resistance she felt as she squeezed the edges of the blaze together.

  Sweat rolled into her eyes, stinging unmercifully. She
shook it from her skin and checked both sides one last time, to make sure she had gathered every bit of fire she could. Except for the magic glow in the largest trees, all she saw on either side was charred wood and smoke. Right in front of her roared a tower of fire.

  Now she made her power into a gigantic hammer and struck the blaze hard. It flattened. She glimpsed openings between strands of flame.

  “Not good enough!” she cried. She struck it again.

  Something groaned. She didn’t dare look away from that huge column of fire to see what was wrong, no matter what. The blaze was too furious; it would break from her grip the moment she got distracted. Again and again she struck, hammering the fire, trying to break it into the many strands she needed to weave it.

  I don’t feel right, a weak voice said—it belonged to Tris. I feel … hose. Floaty.

  With a bellowed crack, the flame-column broke free of the ground and swayed. It began to rise in the air.

  Daja gulped. If it escaped, there was no telling where it would go and what damage it would do.

  She raced after it. Seizing its base, she wrapped both arms around it and dragged herself into the column’s heart.

  Fire was in her ears, her nostrils, her eyes. Her clothes turned to ashes. Her wooden staff vanished; the hot brass cap dropped onto her palm and melted, puddling there. If she screamed then, she never heard it over the monstrous roar. Her grip on Frostpine and Sandry frayed.

  Hooks sank into her heart, anchors made of lightning. Tris hung onto Daja, tying herself, Briar, and Niko to the girl, keeping her among the living.

  Daja staggered with the fire’s weight, and staggered again. It still fought her, trying to rise and break free. Her feet left the ground once, twice.

  Where’s your root? cried Briar, frantic. You forgot to make a root again! Remember your vine? It needed roots!

  Yes! shrieked Tris. Put a root down, into the rock!

  Why? Daja wondered numbly. She was starting to melt. What had roots to do with anything? I don’t want to.

  Just like a Trader, said Briar scornfully always running when things get rough.